


two slow dancers (last ones out)

by heavenbreak



Series: we spent the day submerged [2]
Category: Frühlings Erwachen | Spring Awakening - Frank Wedekind, Spring Awakening - Sheik/Sater
Genre: 5+1 Things, Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Character Development, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Historical, M/M, Post-Canon, School, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, content warning in the notes, mlm author
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-09-30 22:38:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17232506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heavenbreak/pseuds/heavenbreak
Summary: “If you were a country pastor and wedded to a woman, we would be deprived of the pleasure in doing this.”“Doing what?” Ernst’s lips merely traced the words. Hanschen hesitantly brought his hands to Ernst’s neck, overcome with senseless infatuation. Ernst was technically the one to initiate, closing his eyes first as if he saw it coming, and then Hanschen leaned in.--- --- ---and the ground has been slowly pulling us back down, you see it on both our skinone time hanschen wanted to kiss ernst robel + the five times they did





	two slow dancers (last ones out)

**Author's Note:**

> CW / this fic contains the following themes:  
> Period-Typical Homophobia  
> Internalized Homophobia  
> Implied/Referenced Suicide  
> Religious Setting  
> Implied/Referenced Child Abuse  
> Consensual Underage Sex (??)

i.

The story was set in the Mediterranean Sea. Aeneas,  _pelagus character_ , along with other Trojans, embarks on a journey towards Italy where Aeneas will eventually build Rome. The first conflict was against nature, a storm that pulled their ship away from their destination, and landed them in Carthage instead. Aeneas meets the Queen of Carthage, Dido, and relays to her their story of misery and hardships.

“I don’t understand it, Hanschen.” Ernst finally said, following a long silence that fell upon them both. He scrunched up his nose, in that special way Hanschen liked best, then glared at the strings of Latin he found underneath his nose, yet to be deciphered.

“The last line,” Hanschen drawled on, sparing the clock at the corner of Ernst’s room a glance to find that it’s a quarter to nine in the evening. At least he’d already made it known to his father that he might be out late beforehand, just hoped that he thinks nothing of it. It wasn’t proper permission in and of itself, Hanschen bolted out the door before his father could allow it— but it should be easily justifiable. This was an  _emergency_. If adorable boys in need of help at a subject that Hanschen excelled in were emergencies, that is.

“Yes,  _tantaene animis caelestibus irae_?” The dark-haired boy pronounced the words with almost perfect diction. Hanschen melted at the way it was said so smoothly and without mistake, but he knew that wouldn’t be enough for the nearing examinations.

“ _Caelestibus_  means ‘heavenly’. These heavenly beings should indeed inhibit an ugly wrath.”

“But it’s a question?” Ernst noted, mostly just finding that out by the question mark at the end of the line and nothing else. Hanschen stammered, reading the line again.

“It’s— yes. You are correct.  _Can_  these heavenly beings, these immortal souls inhibit a terrible, awful resentment for humanity?“ Ernst frowned. He was switching the words around again.

“And… who, exactly are these heavenly beings?”

“Ernst,” Hanschen said it like a gentle censure or a call to attention, but in his mind it meant  _you, you are the heavenly being, your face, your hands, your voice, all celestial; every inch of you was carved by the gods and you hold a terrible grudge against humanity, me in particular, for never having kissed me,_  his bruised heart had whispered, he’d almost said it (and begrudgingly swallowed it back once the streams of thought danced on the tip of his tongue), absentmindedly tracing stars on the crusty pages of Aeneid, Aeneid, and more Aeneid. “This is only the prologue. That last line was mostly a precursory introduction, and we have yet to encounter them. Though we already did, in lecture, we have yet to encounter them as of right now.”

“Ugh, there’s not enough time. Sorry for keeping you late. I just don’t understand it, Hanschen, what’s the use of committing it to memory? I just can’t remember all these words.”

“It’ll be alright, Ernst. We’ll keep reading.” At this point, Hanschen was willing to do anything, despite the late hour. Maybe Hanschen doesn’t appear like trite in any case at all, but he’d rather take Ernst’s worries away and tell him, Moritz Stiefel will take injury to the class cutoff. However, Ernst and Moritz were rather good friends, so perhaps that wouldn’t aid much.

It puzzled Ernst considerably well to wonder  _why_  Hanschen, in particular, just how this boy had generously offered to lure him out of his own shell and help him in his Latin, the long winding epic of Aeneid. It could’ve been Melchior Gabor, the smartest boy in class. Or Georg, his seatmate. Or  _Otto_ , who understood his struggles. Even by then, when it wasn’t so hard to come up with reasons anymore, it was the reasons for the reasons why that he had trouble sighting.

Hanschen wouldn’t be the type to sort out his feelings and thoughts like that. Whatever came his way, he got the most out of. It wasn’t ever like that for Ernst.

“You don’t have to deceive me, Rilow. I won’t make it past the final examinations. What will I do, then?”

“You  _will_  make it past the examinations. This is just Latin. You’ll make it. At least promise me that,” Hanschen said coolly, as Ernst drew in a shaky breath; Hanschen hated seeing him like this. It meant a great deal, he was one of the students with the lowest marks this term, and he couldn’t bear returning home with absolutely nothing, after the mark distribution. It would crush him. His parents would loathe him. “…won’t you?”

“God, I don’t know, Hanschen!” Ernst was going to be so close to giving up. Long ago, he’d already decided that he despised Latin.

“Then we should proceed to the next section.” Hanschen flipped a page with a teasing lick at his fingers, sliding across the paper.

* * *

 

ii.

Moritz was dead, and it might be partially Ernst’s fault.

Ernst felt the heavy weight of the many burden his friends and acquaintances have left, death and expulsion in their wake, even as Hanschen led him by the hand, skipping into a vineyard familiar to them both. This had been the place where they studied together occasionally, when neither household were available. Hanschen could feel Ernst’s sorrow, a pain that amplified tenfold within him because, well, it was  _Ernst_.

The sun was setting. Ernst noted the scattered hues of gold and red painted across the sky, while bells were heard, sounding damp from ways away. They sat atop the grass, Ernst pulling on stray weeds with much effort as his knuckles turned bright white, pale as the white in his eyes.  _Unlike Moritz, Moritz no longer had eyes. He had a vision in his sleep, angels don’t have eyes. Or was he an angel, did he even get to heaven? Isn’t suicide a sin?_

The predicament was, Ernst had actually made it, which was an event worth celebrating in itself— he passed his examinations, thanks to Hanschen’s aid. However, Moritz, his childhood friend, didn’t. They’d just attended his funeral the past week, and a little after, followed Melchior getting expelled. Melchior, who Ernst knew, was one of the only people who bothered to help him in class recitations. He felt numb to these unfortunate incidents at first, but when Hanschen asked him if he was alright, it all came crashing down like a bolt of lightning on weak cement.

“It was because of me isn’t it? I’m meant to fail but I didn’t, so Moritz took my place and now he’s dead.”

“Please, Ernst. There is no room for blame— it’s not your fault. You’re… you’re meant to fail as much as Moritz was meant to die.” Hanschen argued. He’d be lying to imply that he didn’t sense that someone would wind up dead. It was down to who passed the examinations. Hanschen never knew Moritz, despite sitting beside him in Latin class (the only information he gathered about the boy was that he’s either a narcoleptic, or an insomniac who caved in frequently), and somehow, hypocritically,  _he_  felt like he was at fault in the events that had transpired.

But that didn’t matter, then. Hanschen had his own code, the guide to living an ideal life. If you let yourself become a bystander, let yourself be fed to the mechanics of society— the odds will statistically, and magically be in your favor. It worked, thus far. He was still alive and in school.

While flurries of emotion threatened to spill tears at the corners of his eyes, it seemed a little silly, to Ernst— how easily he grieved. To an outsider, these could be people he’d do completely fine without, and it might have been true. But he’s always been rather emotional. Life was beautiful. To be deprived of it, he couldn’t fathom.

“Those bells…” Hanschen started, with a thoughtful sigh, “so peaceful.”

Ernst ceased thinking of the miserable events. Hanschen was here, and they’d spend their hours like normal. Having nothing to study for the evening, after all, he thought he should entertain his friend with plain distant fantasies. How he’d be a country pastor, with his red-cheeked wife, his library, his degrees. Boys and girls, who live nearby, give him their hands when he goes walking. Hanschen laughs, not that he intended to mock the boy, but rather he was perplexed by it.  _You can’t be serious. Ernst, you are such a sentimentalist._

“The pious, serene faces you see on the clergy, it’s all an act— to hide their stupidity.” Hanschen replied, it was recited, like a poem, though not necessarily an excerpt Hanschen commit to memory (there are only very few things Hanschen had commit to memory ever since the finals examinations had passed, many of them being maps of Ernst’s face and marks) but was a poem of his own. "They'd envy us, Ernst. How we all haven't aged yet and let ourselves become slaves to each other's insults and charades." Somehow it made Ernst feel better.

“Why would they be envious, Hanschen?”

“If you were a country pastor and wedded to a woman, we would be deprived of the pleasure in doing this.”

“Doing what?” Ernst’s lips merely traced the words, impatiently waiting for the answer. He didn't intend to play foolish, he wanted Hanschen to hurry and kiss him already. Hanschen hesitantly brought his hands to Ernst’s neck, overcome with senseless infatuation. Ernst was technically the one to initiate, closing his eyes first as if he saw it coming, and then Hanschen leaned in.

Ernst only remembered kissing, deeply, like his lips could spill the love that flowed from within him like waterfalls. He remembered the hands that tangled in his dark locks, adorning with more kisses the freckles that dotted Hanschen’s face like stars. He remembered a mess of limbs, and little to no coordination that was made up for by both their enthusiasm. His heart thrummed like the buzz of a bee pollinating the blossoms that surrounded them.

He would envy it too, had he not the chance to do this at all in his lifetime. He’d be living a lie if he continued on without admitting that he  _wanted_ this to feel wrong, because they’re boys. And they’re kissing. And boys who dreamed of becoming pastors wouldn’t dare to do such infallible things. It was ineffable in the grand scheme of it all, but he’d already been living a lie before this moment. The lies were just made sweeter with each dip of Hanschen’s lips and fluttering of his eyelids.

“Thirty years from now, tonight may seem unbelievably beautiful.” These words, long after they were pulled away from each other by the need to be filled with oxygen, uttered by Hanschen brought him back to earth, when his head had reached the clouds, tasting heaven.

“And in the meantime?”

Ernst had wished there was more time— that there were no thirty years from now. He wanted for it to be this moment and this moment only, living in the kiss, in the vineyard, on the grass with Hanschen, for as long as time exists. For as long as he could count the stars on his skin.

“Why not?”

They came crashing in like waves at the sea.  _Thirty years from now._  It was the thirty years that lasted ten seconds, because he wished it was the thirty years that passed before they pulled away, Ernst opening his mouth to speak, mindlessly and without thought, all his sense of coherence seemed to be taken away by Hanschen’s soft mouth.

“On my way here this afternoon, I thought perhaps we would only… talk.” Ernst said, Hanschen immediately deflating at the notion.

“So… are you  _sorry_  we—“

“No! I would not live contently without having met you. I—I love you Hanschen, as I have never loved anyone.” Quickly correcting his mistake, Ernst gazed into Hanschen’s eyes as intensely as he would at a question he didn’t know the answer to, hoping that he’d said the right thing regardless. But Hanschen was no Latin test. Hanschen was a beautiful, labyrinthine poem Ernst aimed to perform with utmost emotion, with the raw power of his voice, soul, lips, and hands.

“Let us not be sad, we are here.”

The rest of their allotted time for the night progressed rather wonderfully for them both. Ernst went home with butterflies in his stomach, but they all dropped dead in his stomach as soon as he entered through his doorway.

* * *

 

iii.

At church, on the Sunday that followed, Ernst felt different, something awakened within him like a bright light, as if he no longer felt like committing to his church duties. The altar boy nevertheless, behaved the next hour absentmindedly executing mass services, holding up liturgical books and swinging the thurible about. These actions carried out by his lithe hands with very little conscious effort, the number of times he’d participated in these functions can only be counted vaguely by years. He took his time glancing at the congregation from the chancel every once in a while, watching how these people claim to believe but with little to no passion or faith in their eyes. These people would hate him, an altar boy, he’d decided, if they ever found out about him, and God, and boys.

A peculiar thing about statues of Jesus Christ is that his head is turned downwards and slightly to his right. He noticed this only when he’s seated at his usual spot in the chancel, which was to the gospel side, and looked up to see Jesus staring back at him with a look of disdain. He was reminded of his own father, for various reasons he couldn’t intercept in times like these.

Not a single soul at church knew him, truly. He just appeared here, looking for a way to repent for being found abominable by the people he lived with. He already walked on the thinnest ice, working here, but he was merely a wallflower. Never spared a second glance.

He scanned the nave once more, eyes jumping from each churchgoer’s face to another, and it was until he landed on Hanschen’s, handsome as ever, that Ernst realized that he was looking for him. He smiled, secretly. Then came the communion procession, Ernst situationed beside a deacon. He saw Hanschen stand to line up across Ernst, only ten or so people between them. His heart paced, beating wildly and posed a great challenge for the altar boy to keep focus on the task at hand— holding the paten with shaky hands as people lined up single file to receive the Eucharistic bread.

He counted in his head the people that came by, eleven, twelve, then arrived Hanschen. His breath caught in his throat, enamored by his beauty, angered that he hadn’t noticed a good percent of it before their night at the vineyard.

“The Body of Christ,” the deacon pronounced, holding up the Eucharistic bread with two hands. Hanschen glanced at Ernst for a quarter of a second, before staring blankly ahead like he heard nothing. The deacon cleared his throat and pronounced louder, “…The Body of Christ?”

“Amen.” Hanschen smirked before letting the Body of Christ slip into his mouth on his tongue, and left to the pews.

The concluding rite ended quickly for Ernst, who shed his amice and alb fast as lightning, wanting to do nothing more than bolt after Hanschen as he exited the church with a slow pace as if expecting him to follow. He pushes past the crowds of exuberant children, passive elderly, and tired adults, catching up to the blonde. He playfully touched the back of Hanschen’s hand once they were out of sight from the rest of the world.

“Hello,” Hanschen cooed.

“Hello.”

“You were marvelous up there.”

“But I wasn’t doing anything,” Ernst said, confused. He only did what he did every Sunday, albeit lazily.

“Yes, and you’re marvelous all the time; so it happened that you were up there. You were the only face I could bear to look at.” Hanschen was new to this, despite what Ernst might think of him.

He wasn’t liked all that much by anybody, not even any girl, or any of the boys in his class save for Ernst. People would avoid his touch— flee when he neared, roll their eyes whenever he said something that seemed prissy and anal-retentive. So to almost be revered (Ernst looked at him like he saw an angel) by someone he regarded highly in everything (except Latin), to have his sentiments returned, it gave him an untried outlook on how he should approach his ideal life. There was a newer meaning to skimming off the cream, and biding your time to let the system work for you.

Hanschen wanted Ernst mouth on his, so he gazed at Ernst’s lips longingly before Ernst rolled his eyes and pushed his lips against Hanschen’s. They kissed, while the low rumble of the crowd from mass could still be heard at a distance. Ernst could taste a hint of wine in the other, so he pulled away hesitantly.

“Are you intoxicated?”

“No,” he laughed, “It’s just wine, Ernst. Christ’s divine body wasn’t nearly enough. Thought I’d partake in his blood, however it goes.”

“Should I be jealous, then?” Ernst quipped and teased, running out of cares in the world.

“I’d rather be shunned by God Himself than be separated from you.”

“Hanschen,” Ernst feigned surprise, his face an exaggerated look, ”you’re  _such_  a sentimentalist.”

“Mock all you want, I’ll love you no less, unfortunately.”

“That is not the spirit.” Ernst hummed, took Hanschen’s hand in his and pressed his mouth against the flushed skin, “Listen, Hansi. I learned something new.  _Kalos kai agathos_.”

“Still studying Latin?”

“It's Greek. I read that phrase in a book, and was instantly reminded of you. Beautiful and good.” Hanschen scoffed, disbelieving.

“That should be y—“

The air once filled with tenderness, a significant attachment between the two boys all drown out quicker than a dropped book as they neared Ernst’s household. There weren’t any lights inside, but his father (who never bothered to attend Sunday masses) sat at the porch, illuminated only by a lantern nearing the end of its supply of fuel. The burly man looked at Hanschen in the eye. Much to both the boys’ chagrin, they parted for the evening. Hanschen’s arms suddenly felt cold.

“Goodnight, Hansi.” Ernst whispered, without any real emotion except for a repressed sadness.

“ _Ave atque vale_ ,” Hanschen could barely say before Ernst turned his back on him and returned home. He watched as Ernst’s father clicked his tongue in disapproval, and yanked him by the arm. The situation escalated inside, Hanschen could hear voices being raised—it felt improper to bear witness to it yet at the same time he felt too guilty to leave. Eventually, no sound could be heard from the house, and the lantern in Ernst’s room was blown out.

Hanschen clenched his fist, mulled a few terrible decisions in his mind, turning them over, before deciding that walking home was the best option.  _So much for by-standing and skimming off the cream._

* * *

 

iv.

“You weren’t at school,” the blonde boy perked up at the sight of Ernst seated under a tree that was grew beside the road that connected Hanschen and Ernst’s house. He had pieces of paper in his hand, paints contained in tubs where some spilled on the grass. The painter’s eyes crinkled as Hanschen approached.  Ernst never stayed home from school, so he was mostly curious and a little worried. “How are you?”

“I’m ill.”

“Yet you’re out here. You should be at home, Ernst.” He sat there beside him nonetheless, eating his advice. Ernst dipped a brush in pure yellow paint, and paints the sun in the sky, hanging low. The picture was of their street, and Ernst wanted to paint the scenery while he waited for Hanschen to return home, this scenery in particular for this is one of the many places they’d studied together. “That is… beautiful.”

“I’m not yet finished.”

“Good. It’ll look even prettier than beautiful when you’re finished.”

Ernst laughed, almost happily, but today something is definitely the matter so he turned quiet after seconds. He wasn’t ill. He just didn’t want to come to school. Hanschen debated if he were to ask what made the boy seem so uneasy (his discomfort was evident in his face and every move), but later decided that Ernst could come forward on his own terms— scared that if Hanschen asked, he’d run off, get angry at him, among other things (Ernst would never do such, but Hanschen couldn’t help but be cautious). He rarely saw Ernst so tense. The boy in question pursed his lips in a tight smile. “You’re too kind.”

“You tend to have that effect on me. I’ve become soft.”

“Sorry, have I finally cracked one Hanschen Rilow, no longer in its intended working order?”

“Appears so. But let me stay broken. My true, unthwarted self is ugly, and should never be shown to you as it’d be a disgrace.”

“But didn’t you hear? I love all of Hanschen Rilow.”

“Don’t say that. I can’t kiss you in the middle of the street.” Hanschen expected Ernst to blush, fluster at the comment in his usual, endearing, shy self— but he only sulked more, placing his brush down. Something was definitely wrong. Hanschen braced, appearing that this is a call for drastic measures. “Ernst… are you well?”

“Of course I am. I’m just ill.” Ernst lied, through his teeth. Hanschen could easily tell when Ernst lied, but he never pointed it out because some of the time it just made Ernst frustrated. And there was no worse feeling than becoming the source of Ernst’s frustrations.

“Is… this about your father?” He pressed, just as his fingertips also pressed at Ernst’s knuckles. Ernst snatched Hanschen’s hand into his and clasped it between his fingers, squeezing like his touch was a comfort to him. Hanschen raised them, kissing at them until a passerby appears at the corner of his eye before dropping the touch like it burned. He looked immediately to Ernst’s face, searching for any signs of offense at the gesture, but Ernst easily understood. He went back to painting.

“We’ll talk about it at a later time,”

“Any time.” Hanschen tried his best to assure him. He was never this kind of person, never the slightest bit considerate. But he wanted to keep Ernst, by his side. These times, it felt like them against the world.

“Thank you, Hansi. For caring.” He put berries on the painting, red speckles on the bushes, even though there weren’t any in front of them. One of them was shaped like a heart. “You are the most important person, to me.”

“I know.” Hanschen smiled.

* * *

 

v.

Ernst finished the painting just in time before the sun sank fully below the horizon. He held the piece of paper out to Hanschen, who was confused. “Keep it,” he’d said, so he stuffed it carefully inside a pocket on his coat. Hanschen then offered to walk him home, but Ernst regrettably declined.

They were a few paces parted from each other, on opposite directions, until Ernst suddenly got a grasp of his situation and turned around, calling for Hanschen, with tears already spilling from his eyes. He felt incredibly stupid, lacking control of himself, always crying around Hanschen, who must think him an infant by now from all his frequent sobbing. He wished that it was easy to love him— to love another boy.  Hanschen ran as fast as he can, catching him in a crushing embrace.

Ernst told him, he doesn’t want to return home. The moments all flew past him compared to the serene and languid pace of time as they sat underneath the mango tree, and before Ernst could fully process the passage of time, he was in Hanschen’s room. His room, which looked messy in comparison to his commonly tidy appearance. Articles of clothing were tossed about. He even had his own vanity, which was also plagued by a storm of clothing. Hanschen didn’t ask any questions. Ernst was infinitely grateful for that, frightened of questions and especially of appearing pitiful.

He wanted to apologize, for being a bother and a pathetic burden, but Hanschen had already made it clear that he  _wanted_  to help more than anything else, which at the same time compromised Ernst on his fear of appearing pitiful, so  he redirected his attention to the books strewn about on his massive bed.

“Uhm,” Hanschen paused, still arranging words in his head, “are you planning to sleep?”

Ernst thought, now his fear of questions dubiously provoked. If he said yes, Hanschen would let him sleep on his bed. Now, that’s too nice. And he was just at church the day before, which would very much contribute to his pacing mind’s objection to a state of rest. He shook his head.

“Then I won’t, as well.”

A considerable amount of time passed, Hanschen grabbing a book to read and going about their evenings like it was just a normal night. Ernst took his time touring Hanschen’s room, taking into account all the little objects he has lying around. Hanschen had so many things. Ernst’s room was much smaller than his. Hanschen’s parents wouldn’t be home until next morning, so none of them are contorting their anxieties an absurd amount in this calm.

That night, Hanschen was reading up on The Iliad. Ernst had turned to him, in the midst of the death of Patroclus. He tapped Hanschen on his shoulder. His eyes immediately locked on, ever so attentive. Ernst drew in a deep, anxious breath, before he told him everything, such secrets only shared between two boys who trusted each other with their lives.

To the untrained eye, Hanschen and Ernst were just two boys on the precipice of a rickety infatuation, who only professed their love because they never had the time or chance to learn what love was. Ernst refused it to be true. They trusted each other considerably, because in each other, they met their salvation. Finding love was the slow, gradual climb.

It began from a friendship of need, built on the glances they’d spared each other in Latin class when Ernst spoke with his eyes, “please help me,” and reinforced when Hanschen needed a friend to listen to him magniloquently ramble on about the significance of various classical literature, and challenge him where his perceptions were contentious.

But who’s to say a friendship can turn into their deepest connection, after-school hours spent strolling through the vineyard and sharing their lives, fears, and secrets. And this night was no different.

Hanschen realized that he didn’t know an awful lot of things about Ernst. Only now had he found that behind the boy who liked to collect pebbles, read poems out loud; who feared being asked questions he wouldn’t know how to answer; who hated being pitied; who was picked on for his crooked teeth; who would kill to attend a concert— has a life at home not as sunny as his paintings of the sky. It was a life of overlaps, and disconnections, and complications, which all played parts in how Ernst moved about the world.

That night, Hanschen finally comprehended a few things about himself also, which would've been a first. One of which was that he would want to marry Ernst in the future if he’s ever allowed, be like what a married couple would be. By then, they could have a family of their own, and they would raise their children the right way, with as much love as he has for Ernst. It didn't have to be their children, plenty are starving on the streets. And the next thing he understood about himself, is that he is, indeed very much in love with Ernst Robel. And it didn’t matter if they were too young to be thinking about marriage and family, because he also understood that they were only two boys who were forced to become more sensible too quickly.

Firmly put together, all Hanschen’s first loves in the past had become obsolete. He’d said the names in his head, Max von Trenk, Bobby Maler, among many others, boys and girls. But when he thought of the future, he saw Ernst Robel.

“Would it be wrong to kiss you?” Hanschen asked, after the two had mellowed out. It was two in the morning, the blonde getting drowsy but he was forcing himself awake to savor this moment. Ernst was still invigorated, capturing scenes in his mind that he’d want to sketch later on, like the arrangement of wordy parchment littered across the floor, or even better: Hanschen’s sleepy face. Ernst’s eyes grew wide as his mind registered the question.

“Why would it be?” Ernst asked in turn, hovering over his body as Hanschen lay down. It was the most natural thing in the world, kissing Hanschen.

“Tonight… was rather morose. After our talk at the vineyard, I realized that I’d never—I'd rather not demand things from you that you cannot grant me all the time for any reason involving your vulnerability.”

“...Do you want to?”

“What was that?”

“Do you want to kiss me now?”

“More than anything.”

“Well, I do, too.”

“Then come here.” So, Ernst leaned in.

If he had to pick his favorite kiss of all time (a very mean match, as he loved all of them) it would be this one. He dipped and curved, and Hanschen’s hands flew everywhere. He was helpless, clinging onto any and all fabric that hung from Ernst’s body. This kiss didn’t have sorrow framing the edges like a faded vignette; it didn’t feel like if it were to end, then the world will. It was just them, illuminated by a lantern perched on hasnchen’s bedside drawer. His face quickly flushed as Ernst dipped further, pressing their bodies together.

“Do you… want,” Hanschen started, not knowing how to go about this. Yes, he read the books. He was knowledgeable enough to wrestle his carnal desires in his private time. But this was different. This involved another person, who he loved. “Do you even know…?”

“No.” He answered earnestly, flushing a little. He knew how a man and a woman can procreate, he received that talk rather early from a pastor when he asked what happened after marriage, but between them both he'd have no idea.

“But what about—” Hanschen made a ridiculous pumping motion with his hands, at which Ernst laughed, much to his disdain. It might have caused a bit of a complication, as Ernst didn’t have the same _parts_ as Hanschen.

“Teach me.”

They settled for staying clothed. Not like it mattered to Ernst, all he wanted was to kiss and discreetly get rid of whatever had swollen in the way. Even with their lack of grace when his hands roamed, curious, Hanschen was spent in less than five minutes. Ernst found that it was a thunder-like experience, astounded by it— but still he liked the kisses best. It felt true.

* * *

 

vi.

They entered the vineyard mid-conversation, absentmindedly strolling towards their usual spot as they carried on the discussion at hand.

“You’re upset about this?” There was no tone of aggravation in Hanschen’s voice. He was only prompting Ernst to talk further, about the things that upset him. Because then, he was determined to get them to work through it. He was determined to work through everything.

“I am.” Ernst was already seething in rage, actually.

“I’m… touched?”

“You should be! All this time I’ve been told that loving would be a mistake. That it’s best to pray, get married to people they expect you to marry, and live life normally according to which flesh you were born with. But I find nothing unusual about living the way I am while loving you. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me, and it… it wounds me to think that they could’ve said that about us. About  _you_.” Hanschen found it sterling, how quickly Ernst gathered his words this time.

“This is just the world we live in, Ernst.”

“I know. I know, and I… nobody deserves this. It saddens me, how we aren’t made for this world and we have to suffer for it.”

“Then don’t you think that makes our love more commendable? To think that we’ve been groomed by a society of horrendous idiots into thinking that we’re not supposed to take part in a love like this, but we still prevailed. That is how lucky we are, Ernst. Had we lived in a different time, even centuries from now, nothing can hold us back. But now, we can settle to love each other.”

“I think I understand it now.”

“Yes?”

“Skimming off the cream. We’re the cream.” Ernst finished. Hanschen threw back his head and laughed.

“I guess so, yes.”

Hanschen Rilow took Ernst’s head in his hands, gazing at his face like he was the world, which was as much as he loved him. He pressed his lips between Ernst’s eyebrows, as the latter filed that away under one of his many favorite kisses.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I. DONT KNOW WHAT I JUST WROTE!!!  
> so before u come at me with pitchforks i know. them being underage may be a big deal because they are REALLY young in the original spring awakening but here i imagine them to be, close to a more reasonable age?? anw my tumblr is @bimnoodles please yell at me


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